


The Rite of Movement

by Backwards_Blackbird



Series: Tied as One [5]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: A big ol' ode to how good Dewdrop looks on stage essentially, Feelings, Kissing, M/M, Prequelle Era, The dreaded I-think-I’m-falling-for-you ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29814309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backwards_Blackbird/pseuds/Backwards_Blackbird
Summary: There is an electric fondness that singes his synapses when he looks at him tonight.It's February 2019. Copia has an important realization on stage.
Relationships: Cardinal Copia/Dewdrop Ghoul | Fire Ghoul
Series: Tied as One [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882246
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	The Rite of Movement

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, y'all! A few important points:
> 
> \- Daius is Dewdrop's demon name in this series.  
> \- Gigantic thanks to [@ephemeralgrime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralgrime/pseuds/ephemeralgrime) for her endless support, encouragement and proofreading! We'll hold each other accountable for our funny typos 5ever.  
> \- Title is taken from Hozier's killer tune "Movement."

****

**The Rite of Movement**

_February 7th, 2019_

He moves with the precision of a dancer.

His legs seem to step in the same formations again and again, like a cat in the snow, retracing his steps proudly and elegantly, basking in how correct they are. He looks different from the others, _moves_ differently from the others. His tight trousers outline his lean figure so favorably, so kindly, and his little white-and-black feet never miss a beat. 

His wrists and knuckles are knotty and gnarled, so angular and articulated, one might assume they belonged to a masterful guitarist approaching middle age. This, of course, is not exactly the case—but the impression is immaculate. His flitting fingers expose decades of careful practice unmatched by and inconceivable to any mortal man. They caress and coerce when need be, sliding sensually against the strings like a blade against a honing steel. And in the same breath, they can turn on a dime and punish the instrument with brutal, percussive strums as they disappear in a frenzied blur. 

How he doesn’t draw blood more often is certainly a mystery.

His head, now, his head is where a trained eye could truly spot the beast in him. He tilts his gaze at select audience members, fixing them where they stand with his icepick eyes. His neck is flexible and lithe as he throws his head with the beat, only to snap to attention and careen backwards with such acute attention to every shift in the music. His alertness is nothing short of animal. He hears everything, perceives everything, reacts to everything with a twist of the head and a lengthening of the spine and a widening of those sharp blue eyes.

Each time Cardinal Copia himself is the recipient of this attention, it hits him like a freight train.

His mind wanders when he watches the ghoul on stage, flashing his tongue and baring his teeth. Copia recalls him biting the fleshy inside of his thigh just a few evenings prior, leaving two welts and a bruise in the wake of his affectionate mouth. Only a little blood arose, which he licked up eagerly. 

He imagines his Umbra form might be even less reserved. The marks still sting under his trousers, when he thinks about them. 

But something else strikes him as he watches. Something less tangible. It makes his heart beat heavily, ominously, thrumming so strong that he can feel it in his bones. It fills him with anxious thought, and it distracts him enough to cause him to flip the beginnings of two verses in Cirice. He recovers quickly. But his heartbeat doesn’t.

There is an electric fondness that singes his synapses when he looks at him tonight. Nothing measurable has changed, certainly not. It has been some seven months since he summoned this creature with his own hands, blood, and sigils, and nearly as long since they first acted on impulse and began to explore each other. And yet, he feels a change. A shift in the situation. 

He feels it for the remainder of the show, and he feels it as he blows farewell kisses to the crowd, when a familiar hand squeezes his waist and ruffles his hair from behind.

He certainly feels it when he grabs the offender by the shoulders and presses his lips to his masked cheek without a second thought.

It’s a strangely bashful, heinously Puritanical sensation, the residual sense of embarrassment it leaves in his body after the show. It is almost enough to deter him from inviting the demon back to his hotel room.

Almost.

He decidedly smothers the feeling in hot, open-mouthed kisses. 

Daius’s mask fogs up where his warm breath escapes through his nose. Copia has him pinned against the wall, against an abhorrent textured wallpaper that squeaks when Daius moves his head. He kisses him with more force than usual, claiming him, coaxing his mouth open and tasting his tongue with the fervor of a starving man, until the ghoul is panting for breath.

Daius wraps his arms around Copia’s lower back and pulls their hips together. 

“You’re in a mood,” he declares. “I caught you looking tonight. More than usual.”

Copia raises his eyebrows in a poor charade of innocence. And there’s that heavy heartbeat yet again, pounding against his eardrums. “Did you, eh?”

“I did. Why was that? Did I miss that many notes?”

Copia chuckles and shakes his head. “No, no! Nothing of the sort.”

“Phew. Good. Don’t listen too closely,” Daius says out the side of his mouth. His eyes take on a peculiar luminance in the unforgiving light of the entryway as he cocks his head. “Why all the looking, then, Cardinal?”

Copia releases a sigh. He watches his lips form each of those damning words—his lips which are still reddened by Copia’s bruising kisses—and he wants to kiss him again, to regain the unquantifiable loveliness of losing himself in Daius, in this harnessed demon, without consequences or particularities. He stares the expectant beast down for a few solid moments, willing the question to dissipate. And yet, something tells him it isn’t going anywhere.

Daius invites himself just a little closer. His fingers slide up the Cardinal’s chest, and they approach his neck. “Why?” he repeats quietly, a familiar teasing lilt coloring his prosody.

Copia squeezes the demon’s shoulder once. He averts his eyes, shrugging and nodding and opening his mouth several times before he can produce any words. “You _know_ why. I don’t need to say it.” His heart is hammering against his sternum like a battering ram.

“I’d like it if you did,” Daius returns confidently. And then, he presses two fingers delicately to Copia’s jugular, reading him carefully with his Umbra perception—although, judging by his subsequent expression, Copia’s current state does not require much careful discerning. Daius’s eyebrows raise high in realization.

Copia fixes him with his bicolored stare. When they are this close, it’s impossible for him not to notice everything about the demon that makes his pulse race so fast. His lithe and lovely frame, his delicate ribcage that heaves with every breath beneath his jacquard waistcoat, his clever mouth, his accusing eyes. He is overwhelmed by it, tonight more than ever: the revelation that this creature has his sooty black claws hooked deep in his heart. 

Deeper than any man ever has. 

_Fucking Hell._

There are words for this. Words that he certainly knows. “You’re beautiful,” Copia manages, his voice low and unsteady. He starts again, more self-assured, with less whimsy. “You are fucking beautiful. And I… shit.” He surrenders, just for a moment. He looks blankly to the opposite end of the hotel room, drawing one more sip of courage from absolutely nowhere. One soft click of the tongue, and he’s off. “I have… grown very attached to you.”

Daius shuffles his feet restlessly, and he grins. “Did that hurt, Cardinal?”

Copia widens his eyes. “Wh—? Oh, _shut the fuck up_ —”

Daius silences him with a kiss, both their lips still pulled taut in involuntary smiles. He holds the Cardinal’s head steady with both his hands, his thumbs stroking his sideburns as he takes his time with Copia’s mouth, ensuring not another word can escape. Copia reciprocates and grips both sides of the demon’s mask firmly, and they pause here for some time, warm lips locked comfortably together.

The demon breaks the kiss to nuzzle his masked face against Copia’s cheek. “My summoner,” he says softly. “Come on, man. I was yours from the moment you asked me my name.”

And with these words, Copia’s heartbeat shifts. No longer does it thrum anxiously in his throat and his ears. It spreads and sinks low, low in his belly, pulsing warmth and life and relief through his entire body. 

Daius’s back arches beautifully when he moves in bed that evening, tilting his hips toward Copia’s, easing his body onto him, releasing pleasurable sighs as he settles. And Copia can still see that stunning body curving backward on stage, as though taken by the music and forced to submit, drawn back and left limp like a marionette.

Only one word passes his lips during it all, and it is Copia’s name.


End file.
